


Filthy

by LadyofLetters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Play, Bondage, Dubious Consent, F/M, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mind Control, Non-Consensual Touching, Sex Toys, onesided Dean/Cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-03 23:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyofLetters/pseuds/LadyofLetters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel knows that he is forgetting moments of his life. And then he finds himself strapped down in a chair, with a suddenly (re)familiar face looming over him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filthy

**Author's Note:**

> Set during season 8, somewhere between "Hunteri Heroici" and "Torn and Frayed." Spoilers up through "Torn and Frayed. (ep. 10)
> 
> Story contains rape/non-consensual sexual acts. Please read the tags carefully!

Castiel knows that there are moments in which he loses himself.

They are small moments, too small for a mortal to even notice, barely the space between one breath of the universe and the next. But Castiel is an angel, who feels time differently than humans do, and he is aware, whenever he feels the spheres inhale and inhale again, that the space of that lost exhale was time enough for much to have happened.

He doesn't _remember_ , but he _knows_.

He knows because he will be speaking to Dean and Sam and suddenly his mind will be changed about what he intends to say. But he never remembers changing it; usually he doesn't even remember what his original thought had been.

He knows because he will suddenly find himself with an intent that he hadn't had a moment prior, but which will fill him with a conviction the like of which he hasn't had since before he Fell for Dean. It feels like the old days, like having orders, and although he knows that this is impossible, that these impulses can only be coming from himself and cannot, therefore, be trusted, he finds himself unable to question them.

The most disturbing moment of loss occurs just before Samandriel, driven insane by Crowley's tortures, throws himself at Castiel with the intent to kill. Castiel is forced to slay his brother in self-defence, but that hiccup of space screams at him afterwards. When he explains to Dean and Sam what has happened, the truth tastes like a lie, and his eye begins to bleed.

Perhaps Purgatory did not cure his madness after all.

\- - - - - - -

He is walking, invisible and intangible to the humans around him, through the halls of a hospital.

This is part of Castiel's penance. He likes this part because it _feels_ like penance, like punishment, when he opens himself up to the fear and pain and grief of so many. He cannot heal them all, but as he extends his grace into the rooms of the sick and the dying he can take some of that pain into himself, easing it a little for each patient and family member. Their fears and feelings of helplessness are so familiar to him as to be almost comforting.

He wonders, as he stretches his grace to fill a cancer ward, if Dean would approve of this penance.

Castiel almost doesn't notice when he is somewhere else, because the white walls and bright ceiling are very similar to those of the hospital. But there were many human voices in the hospital, and time there felt as though it was rushing past those who were fated to die. In this room, there is silence, and time is still.

He is also no longer standing.

Castiel isn't sitting in the chair as much as he is reclining in it; there is support beneath his head and his legs are propped up on something. Looking down, he can see that his heels are resting in some kind of stirrups, which lift his feet up about level with his head and keep his legs apart. It is not a very comfortable position, but he is prevented from moving, held down by cool metal across his wrists and ankles. A strange feeling passes through him, almost as though his body is remembering something his mind cannot, which is ridiculous. He tilts his head back toward the ceiling, perplexed, but alarm sets in a moment later as he realizes the most important aspect of his current predicament.

He is naked.

A swift glance back down confirms it, and he sees nothing but the bare skin that he remembers from his time as Emanuel, when he had been naked and showered and changed his clothes as the human he believed himself to be. His vessel is slender but not unmuscled, and the line of hair that leads down from his navel and surrounds his penis is dark and soft. His limbs are long, his calves wiry and dusted with hair as well. But his attention is caught mostly by the penis, because there seems to be something wrapped around the base and beneath the scrotum--it is dark and feels almost, oddly enough, like plastic. He begins to struggle. But long moments of tugging his body in every direction yield little result, and he stops eventually, trying to be practical despite the over-quick beating of his human heart.

He thinks, distantly, that when he first took this body it hadn’t reacted physically to his emotional state. He cannot remember exactly when it started doing so.

Then the thing on him suddenly emits a low hum and starts to vibrate. It sends little shivers of sensation through the root of Castiel's penis, as well as up through the lower part of his body, quick little pricks unlike anything he has ever felt before. He doesn't like it, and jerks sharply against his restraints again, now desperate to get free.

The vibration increases slightly, and it wrings a cry from his throat.

"Stop," he pants, without any idea to whom he is speaking. He jerks his arms hard enough to bruise the wrists of his vessel, but the cuffs do not give. The groan that escapes him next does not quite sound like one of pain, although the feeling in his lower abdomen is similar enough. The little band continues to hum quietly, and he feels his penis jerk in response. He thrashes, throwing his head back.

"Hush, Castiel." A female voice, pitched soft and soothing. But where? And then a figure moves into his line of vision, looming over him, the face cast in shadow. She has fair hair and the line of her mouth is dark and foreboding. "This is supposed to be pleasant."

His hips jerk a little, uncontrollable, it seems, under the bizarre onslaught. He stares up into her face.

"Who are you?" His voice cracks as he speaks.

"Hush," she says again. "I'm not going to hurt you. Lie back."

"No." His body twists, trying to get away, and he can feel blood rushing down to the source of the sensation. He looks, and can see that his penis has begun to stand, filling with fluid. "What are you doing to me?"

But he knows these symptoms. He's felt them before. Watching the pizza man and the babysitter in the Winchester's motel room. When Meg kissed him. When Daphne touched him. When Meg touched him. When Dean...

"Stop!" He doesn't want this. He doesn't know why anyone would _do_ this, but he knows he doesn't want it.

"But Castiel." The voice is still soft, almost sing-song, and the face is still a shadow above him. "This is what you've been desiring."

"No. You're wrong. Please..." She makes another soothing noise, and brushes his hair from his face with a finger. He can feel his body begin to tremble as she moves away from him, and the light falls onto her face. For a moment he still doesn't know her.

And then of course he knows her. She is Naomi and they are in Heaven, and she made him spy on Dean and Sam and persuaded ( _forced_ , his mind whispers, which is ridiculous) him to kill Samandriel. How could he have forgotten her?

"Naomi, why?" he asks again. She looks the same as she always does, with her neat hair and suit, her face blank as any angel's should be. The only thing that is different is that she is wearing gloves, white gloves like those of a surgeon.

Is this torture? Castiel doesn't understand. She has always been professional with him, demanded absolute obedience, but this is the first time she has tried to hurt him. ( _No_ , his mind says, and there is a flash of remembered pain and her voice shouting at him to be still.) He killed Samandriel on her command, why would she do this?

"I am not hurting you Castiel," she insists. "Just relax. You will enjoy it."

He recognizes now that it is pleasure spiking through his body, sexual pleasure, but it does not make him feel the way he imagined it would. He still wants it to stop. His body responds despite his will, and when Naomi's gloved hand comes down to trace a line across his chest and stomach, he nearly convulses. He is hard now, and she takes him in her hand, touch firm, though detached.

"You like how that feels," she tells him. "You want this." It is not a question, but there is confusion in her tone. "Tell me why."

"I don't," he lies, even as heat shoots through him. He forces his hips to remain still. "I do not want this."

She strokes him again, and again, and the sensation is bliss and horror. He clenches his teeth and moans through them, mind gone suddenly hazy.

"Who do you want to do this to you, Castiel?" is her next question. She is maintaining her distance as much as she can, keeping her body away from his and her arm outstretched, as if she is touching something highly distasteful. "Close your eyes and imagine it."

He does not mean to obey.

Closing his eyes brings the sensations in his lower body into sharper relief, the buzz at the base of his erection and the insistent pleasure it builds against and behind his testicles, the firm pressure of that gloved hand around him. He fights against the sensation, fingers clenched into fists, throat closed against the sounds that try to issue forth. No. She can't... he _won't_...

"Castiel. Tell me what you want, Castiel." The voice floats above him, soothing, and he finds his face turning toward the sound, though his eyes remain tightly shut.

"Is there someone?" the voice asks. "Imagine being touched like this down on Earth. You want it, don't you?"

He wants. He wants to be touched. He feels so alone and he thinks; if only he could reach out. But he cannot.

"Tell me, Castiel," the voice says, and he feels a heavy pressure to obey. A hand strokes him up and down, and the pitch of the vibrations increases again. His hips arch with the thrumming of it. Heat and ice pulses through him in waves, and he wants... he wants _more_.

"Who do you want to touch you like this?" The voice is instant, and it brings images to his mind. An eye and the side of a nose, strong hands that are rough with calluses, full lips tilting on a laugh.

"What do you want, Castiel?" those lips murmur, and Castiel breaks beneath their weight.

"I, I... _Dean_...." The pleasure stops abruptly, and there is a low gasp that he doesn't think is his. He nearly cries for the pressure to return. "No, Dean please, don't!" _Please don't leave_.

"What?" Dean asks. He sounds horrified, disgusted even.

"I'm sorry," Castiel whispers. "Dean, I didn't.... I didn't mean for you to know."

But his honesty is to be rewarded, it seems, because a hand is wrapping itself around him again, and he thrusts up raggedly in his relief. Dean values the truth above everything, Castiel knows.

"Dean," he starts, but he is interrupted.

"How long?" the voice, Dean's voice, asks. Castiel bites his lip and doesn't answer. "How long, Castiel?"

Castiel chokes on the sensation of being touched, the vibrations that he can feel inside of himself, now.

"I... I don't...."

" _How long?_ " It's a snarl of distaste and anger, and the reply is ripped from Castiel's mouth as surely as the moans of his pleasure.

"I don't know! I don't know, Dean.... Forever, I don't know...." Something cold and made of metal presses against his skin, low down at the base of his torso, behind his genitals. The touch makes him shiver, uncertain, and he tries to pull away, but the hand on his erection is insistent and slides down to press his hips back into place.

"Is this what you want?" Dean asks, as that cold metal presses harder against him. He feels something give under the force of it, and for a moment he thinks it must be a knife, and that Dean is slicing into him. But then he remembers; there is an orifice there. He isn't being cut, he's being _breached_.

The long, thin object slides inside, a foreign sensation that he squirms around until the muscles there register pain and he stills himself. Slowly it presses in, then back out a little, and the hand on him pumps up and down and he feels a very different sexual thrill, this time burning through him from the inside out.

"Is this what you want, Castiel?" Dean asks, working him slowly. "You're an angel, you were a soldier for God, and this is what you would reduce yourself to? A plaything for humans?"

Castiel hardly thinks that's fair.

"Don't be cruel, Dean. It doesn't suit you."

"You've fallen farther than I could have imagined," Dean says, working the object inside him a little faster now. A slight shift in the angle has light exploding behind Castiel's eyelids, and he cries out in ecstasy.

"I'm not sorry," he tells Dean, fervently. "Not for this. Not even if you never knew."

And he means it. He has so many regrets, but his passion for Dean, in whatever form it may choose to express itself, cannot be one of them.

Again there is a strike to that place inside of him, again the spike of pleasure is almost too much to bear. He feels his toes curl and his back arch as something that has been building in him suddenly crests and rips itself free, and he screams soundlessly through it, eyes open at last, blinded by the light that shines down into them.

It is only when the mortal eyes he wears can see again that he recollects himself. He is in the chair, but the bindings are gone. His muscles are trembling as if with fatigue; he feels sticky, and when he looks down he finds white ejaculate spattered across his stomach.

Naomi is standing a few feet away, clutching a long thin rod, both gloved hands held away from her body in disgust. There is revulsion in her face, which is strange. He has never seen any emotion there before besides anger. She practically sneers at him.

"Clean yourself up and go," she orders. He cleans himself, obediently, with a thought, wiping away the messy evidence and the bruises on his wrists. When he is clean and dressed he looks back at her again. "I knew there was something wrong with you," she says, almost as though she can't help herself. He is reminded, vaguely, of Hester in her rage and pain before she tried to kill him and was killed instead. "I knew you were twisted, contaminated, but this? Disgusting."

He finds himself unable to reply, paralyzed by her contempt.

"You're _filthy_."

\- - - - - - - - - - -

The universe breathes and breathes again, and Castiel knows he has lost himself for a moment. He stops cold in the hallway, grace stretched out into the cancer ward to his left, and tries to understand the tense, panicked feeling that has come over him. If he were human, he would think he was about to be sick, and he even doubles over a little, clutching his stomach.

He thinks, distantly, that when he first took this body it hadn’t reacted physically to his emotional state. He cannot remember exactly when it started doing so.

He flies from the hospital so quickly he nearly tears his over-extended grace and leaves some of it behind. He finds the nearest payphone, presses his palm to it to make it work (his fingers are trembling, his whole _hand_ is shaking) and dials the familiar number.

It is Sam who picks up.

"Hello?"

"Where are you?" He doesn't mean to sound panicked.

"Cas?" Sam's voice answers, hesitantly. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just tell me where you are."

The sounds on the other end of the line become muffled; Sam has put his hand over the receiver and is talking to Dean. Castiel leans against the payphone, trying to keep his breathing in check.

"Sam!" he barks, when it takes too long.

"We're in Madison, Colorado," Sam tells him. "Ridge hotel, room twelve."

Castiel lands just inside the door.

They are both there, Dean on his feet at the foot of a bed, television remote in hand, Sam sitting at a small table with the phone against his ear.

“Cas?” Dean is clearly alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

"Nothing,” Castiel answers. It isn’t a lie. Nothing is wrong, and he has no reason to be feeling as though there is. (But it _is_ a lie. He is losing moments of himself, and he should tell them. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t just _tell them_.) “I merely... I wanted to see you.”

"You sure?” This time it’s Sam, whose face is wearing a look of caring and concern. Castiel still doesn’t understand how Sam can love him, after everything that has passed between them, but he is grateful. He loves Sam, too. "You sounded upset.”

“I’m just,” Lonely. Frightened. Sick, possibly still insane. “Bored.”

Dean puts on that smile that he doesn’t mean.

“Well, great,” he says, striding forward. “We were about to have pizza and a monster movie marathon. Glad you could join us.” He raises his hand to clap Castiel on the shoulder.

“Don’t touch me!” Castiel draws away sharply, back slamming against the door behind him with a sharp noise, and Dean freezes, fingers outstretched. Behind him, Sam has gotten to his feet.

For a moment, no one speaks, and Castiel, because he knows them, can see that they are deciding which questions they want to ask.

“Why?” Dean finally says, cautiously. Longing and shame roll together in Castiel’s belly. He whispers.

"Because I’m filthy.”


End file.
